


Somewhere Down This Road

by DizzyDrea



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Past Abuse, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Redemption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 13:30:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2271555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DizzyDrea/pseuds/DizzyDrea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint had no illusions that one conversation with Ward would slay all his demons, but if he could help redeem him the way Coulson had done with Clint, he'd consider that a down payment for the faith and forgiveness he'd been offered after everything Loki had done to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somewhere Down This Road

**Author's Note:**

> I think, to be perfectly honest, that there's no real point to this story, other than to see what would happen with Ward and Clint in a room together. This takes place somewhere after Season 1 of Agents of SHIELD. See the end of the story for other notes (that would spoil things if I put them here).
> 
> Title from the Rascal Flatts song "Moving On".
> 
> Disclaimer: The Avengers and Agents of SHIELD and all its particulars are the property of Marvel Studios, Walt Disney Studios, Joss Whedon, and a lot of other people who aren’t me. I am doing this for fun and for practice. Mostly for fun.

~o~

Clint Barton strode down the corridor, the picture of perfect calm. Inside his guts were roiling with unease and mistrust.

Behind him was a secure door, locked tight the second he'd passed through. Before him, another secure door with a biometric lock keyed to his iris and handprint. Above him, his every move was being watched by cameras. 

The deeper into the facility he moved, the worse he felt until every second pounded with the need to flee, to run and hide, to protect himself in the only way he knew how. He ruthlessly suppressed the instinct. 

He was here for a friend, and he wouldn't let his own issues get in the way of doing the job he was asked to do.

When he was through the last door—finally—he took a deep breath. He was armed—no guns, but he hardly needed them anyway—and he was here as an Avenger, not the SHIELD operative he used to be. If these goons got even a glimmer of a ghost of an idea that they might be able to take him into custody—in the name of Hydra or the Army or whoever—well, they wouldn't stand a chance. They wouldn't be the first to try, and they certainly wouldn't be the last. Clint had taken on bigger monsters than this and survived, fuckyouverymuch.

He closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath in, releasing it slowly and allowing the calm of a sniper's mindset to overtake him. When he opened his eyes, his focus was clear and his aim true. It only remained to be seen if his target would want to be hit.

~o~

He was ushered into a room with a lonely table and two chairs, on opposite sides facing each other. There was a camera in the corner and a mirror behind him. It made his skin itch to be so exposed, but he'd tolerate it for the sake of the mission.

He'd been assured of complete privacy during his visit—no less than the Director himself had told him that no recordings of the conversation he was about to have would be made, nor would anyone be watching covertly from behind the two-way glass. He appreciated the amount of effort they'd gone to. He couldn't say whether this was a good idea; he was no one's idea of a mentor, but he'd also done and seen things that most of the people in SHIELD couldn't imagine. 

The Director had said he'd be the one most likely to get through to the man he was there to see. Clint agreed, mostly. He only hoped the other guy thought so, too.

As if the thought conjured the man, the door opened and in stepped Grant Ward, flanked by two guards, the chains restricting his movements jangling in the quiet of the room. Ward shuffled forward, dropping into the chair across from Clint's and affecting a slouch, as if he didn't care where he was or who he'd been brought to see. Clint was intimately familiar with the posture and the attitude, defense mechanisms he'd used often in his past life.

"You can take the chains off, guys," Clint said as the guards started to pull back.

One of them shook his head. "No, sir, we can't. Standard procedure says—"

"He's not going to get the jump on an Avenger," Clint interrupted. "Or do you think I can't handle one Level 7 Agent?"

Both men flinched, glancing at each other, like they were content to let the other make the choice. Then, one of the guards touched his earpiece, head tilted like a dog listening to his master speak. Clint had a fairly good idea who he was listening to, a hunch that was borne out when the guard who'd argued with him took out a set of keys and proceeded to unchain Ward.

Clint turned to the camera in the corner and nodded once. The red light on top glowed for a moment before blinking out as the camera went dark. The guards exchanged another look, then quietly left the room, one of them giving him the side-eye, as if to say _hey buddy, it's your funeral_.

Well, he hadn't died yet, and he'd had more dangerous people than a lousy Level-7-former-agent-cum-Hydra-mole try.

"Ward," Clint said as he sat back down.

He was met with a stony wall of silence, the guy staring over his shoulder, presumably at his own reflection, though he probably wasn't really seeing it. Clint sighed. This didn't have to be a two-way conversation, but he'd hoped to at least get some reaction out of the man.

"Okay, if that's the way you want to play it," Clint said. "You don't have to talk; just listen—"

"Look," Ward said, suddenly sitting up and staring straight at Clint. He didn't flinch; long hours in a nest holding cover while he waited for his target had trained the impulse right out of him, but the sudden transformation was startling. "I get that Coulson sent you here. You're supposed to talk to me, maybe help me realize that it wasn't my fault or some such bullshit, maybe sympathize over how we were both coerced. Well, you can save your breath. I wasn't put under some spell by a god. I made a choice. End of story."

With that, Ward slouched back into his chair and resumed his thousand-yard stare. 

Clint watched him for long moments. The outburst hadn't been a surprise; he'd have been more surprised if Ward hadn't reacted to his presence at all. But you didn't need to be a sniper to see that Ward wasn't as unaffected as he was pretending to be. There was tension in his shoulders, a pinch around his eyes and the faintest tremor in the hands resting on the table. Ward was stressed to the limit, probably reliving every moment of his time with Garrett, alternately wondering what he could have done differently and beating himself up for not even trying.

Taking a deep breath, Clint did what he'd come here to do.

"My parents died when I was six," he said. Ward didn't react, but Clint hadn't expected him to. "Car accident. Dad was drunk off his ass, as usual, so he couldn’t have swerved even if he'd wanted to. My brother and I wound up at an orphanage; it was a lot harder to place two kids back then and they wanted to keep us together."

Ward was still stone-faced, so Clint kept going. He hadn't gotten to the relevant part yet, anyway.

"We'd been at the orphanage for four years when this traveling circus came through town." Ward's eyes flicked to him for the briefest second before returning to their stare-down with the wall. Yeah, not everyone knew he'd run away to the circus; most people in SHIELD knew he'd been a mercenary before he'd been recruited. Only a select few knew the whole story. "When they packed up to head to the next town, Barney convinced them to take us with them. Don't know how. I mean, what could a couple of scrawny kids do in the circus?

"But it was better than staying at the orphanage. So, we took the little we'd been allowed to keep and joined the circus." Clint chuckled. Every kid's dream and he'd lived the heaven and hell of it. "Mostly we did the stuff nobody else wanted to do: mucking stalls and cleaning up after the performers. When I got older, they let me climb the rigging, help set up the tents. Carson's wasn't much, but it was home.

"After I'd done all my chores, I used to watch the performers rehearse." That had been his favorite part. He'd been so rarely allowed to watch during the show because he'd have to help get the acts on and off stage, so his only chance to see any of it was in rehearsal, usually sitting as high in the rigging as he could get so he could see it all. "Swordsman and Trickshot were always my favorites. I couldn't believe it was possible to do things with weapons—much less common kitchen knives—that no one else could do. I think I was thirteen the first time I picked up one of the Swordsman's knives and tried to hit a target. He caught me at it, of course. But instead of beating the shit out of me like I'd expected, he offered to teach me. Said I had natural talent."

This was always the hardest part for Clint to talk about. The circus held good and bad memories for him, and some days it was hard to separate the two. Still, he took a deep breath and plunged ahead.

"It was just cajoling at first," he said, looking down at the hands he hadn't realized he'd clasped together. He flexed his fingers, consciously relaxing the bunch of his shoulders as he recalled those days. "He'd cuff me on the back of the head when I failed to remember a lesson, or when it became obvious I hadn't been practicing. Sometimes I didn't have a choice—they didn't let me slack off on my chores even if I was working with the Swordsman—but that didn't matter to him. When Trickshot found out I was learning to throw knives, he stole me away from Swordsman and started training me in archery. That's when it started to get bad.

"Trickshot was a lot like Swordsman, but much, much worse," Clint said, his voice going flat as he tried to keep the emotions at bay. "Instead of cajoling and cuffing, Trickshot told me I was worthless when I couldn’t hit the target every time. He'd beat me if I didn't practice as much as he wanted me to. The only time I ever got away from it all was when I was performing. 'Hawkeye, The World's Greatest Marksman' they called me, but I didn't get there on talent alone. Trickshot would call me a failure if I couldn't make what he termed an easy shot, even if it was the most complicated trick he'd ever set up and might not be able to do it himself."

That got Ward's attention. Clint didn't miss that Ward's gaze had lost the thousand yard stare and was focused on the table now, head cocked as he listened to Clint's story. Yeah, they were more alike than either one of them would ever admit. 

"He'd never beat me where it could be seen on stage, and he knew how to use words to cut just as deeply as a knife. So, I made sure I never missed."

"So how'd you get away?"

The question was asked so quietly that, for a minute, Clint wasn't even sure he'd heard right. But he could see Ward glancing up at him through his lashes, trying to hide just how interested he was in the answer. Clint held back the smile threatening to bloom on his face. 

"I didn't, not really," he said, shrugging. "I found out that Trickshot and Swordsman were robbing people in the towns we passed through. My brother was helping them, and when he found out I knew, he convinced me to go along, help them out by being the lookout. Eyes up high."

This was always the hardest part, because family was family, and Clint had learned a hard lesson that day. "We were in a town in the Midwest—Dayton, maybe; I don't really remember—when a job went wrong. Some guy walked in while they were robbing his house. Trickshot ordered me to kill him, but I couldn't do it. The guy hadn't done anything wrong, and I wasn't about to have blood on my hands. Robbing people who could afford it was one thing; murder was something else altogether."

Ward snorted, but Clint couldn't disagree. A criminal with morals was the weirdest contradiction in terms he'd ever heard. "They beat me up for not taking the shot—Trickshot and the Swordsman. Barney helped. Then they dumped me in a ditch and left me there when the circus pulled out of town. A bunch of kids found me—I don't really remember much—and the next thing I know, I'm in a hospital. I gave them a fake name and story, and bailed as soon as I could walk.

"By then, the circus was miles away, and like an idiot, I went after them." Ward's head shot up, surprised expression comically frozen on his face. "Yeah, that's right. When I got the chance to get away from my abusers, I didn't take it. Luckily for me, I suppose, the circus was too far away and I had no idea where they'd gone. It wasn't like Carson kept to a schedule. He'd see a likely town on the map and pull in, set up shop for a few days, then pull out again when they'd bled the town dry."

"Did you ever catch up with them?" Ward asked quietly.

Clint could hear the hope in his voice, but he couldn't tell whether it was hope that Clint had found the circus again, or that he'd given up and walked away. Clint shrugged.

"Didn't really try too hard, to tell the truth. After a few days of hitchhiking and asking anyone I could find if there'd been a circus pass through, I realized that I was probably better off without them. The law was going to catch up to Trickshot and the Swordsman eventually—and my brother, too—and I knew I didn't want to go to jail. So, I stopped looking."

Ward's face took on a pinched look, like he wasn't sure if that made Clint a coward or really smart. Clint wasn't sure either, to be honest, because of all the choices that being left behind by the circus had forced on him. "The first person I killed was a rival drug lord in Detroit. Guy offered me ten thousand dollars if I'd off his main rival. Who was I to turn it down? I had no money, no way to support myself other than with my bow and my aim. And I figured I didn't deserve better. I wasn't a good person, because if I'd been a good person, I wouldn't have been stuck in the circus, wouldn't have been beaten near to death by my own brother and my mentor. I figured I deserved to be the guy that had blood on his hands, even if I had killed someone even worse than myself."

"But you're a good person," Ward said. "You're an Avenger. That's gotta count for something, or what's the point?"

Clint shook his head. "I wasn't always an Avenger, Ward. For a while, I was a merc. An assassin. I killed people for money, which is how I wound up on SHIELD's radar. It was just lucky for me that they had a use for my particular skillset, or else I'd probably be dead by now. And I still use my bow and my aim to kill people. Just now, it's for the good guys. Doesn't make me a better person, just makes me less of a criminal."

"Still doesn't change anything for me," Ward said, sounding more like the sullen teenager he used to be than a Level 7 agent. "I chose this. And now look at me." He waved his arms around, taking in the whole prison around him. "I've earned this. It's probably better than I deserve."

"Yeah, you earned it," Clint said. Ward's head popped up, eyes huge. "What, you want me to lie to you? Tell you you're a good person who did bad things? I don't know you, so that's not for me to say. What I can tell you is that you had a choice then, and you have a choice now. Phil Coulson is one of the best men you'll ever meet. He's tough but fair, and he's chosen to give you a second chance, just like he did with me. I'm not gonna say it'll be easy. You've betrayed people that cared about you. That's hard to come back from—believe me, I know—but if you want the chance to redeem yourself, undo some of the bad you've done, then you'll take what Phil's offering you. You won't get a better deal, and you won't get a fairer chance with anyone else."

Clint stood, looking down at Ward where he still sat, slumped in his chair. "The choice is yours, but it's always been yours. The past is past. All that matters now is what you do going forward."

And with that, Clint walked out the door.

~o~

Clint stepped into the sunshine, taking his first really deep breath since he'd arrived at the base. He knew he was safe here, that these were the real good guys, but that didn't stop him from feeling like a mouse in a trap. 

"He'll think about what you said."

Clint spun around to see the Director leaning against the wall near the door, tablet in hand, his attention wholly consumed by whatever he was looking at. Clint tipped his head and Phil Coulson stepped forward, angling his StarkPad so Clint could see. There, on the screen, was Ward, still in the interrogation room, no longer slouching but sitting up, head tilted, hands clasped. 

It wasn't the pose of a man who no longer cared. He was contemplating something, that much was clear. Clint could only hope some of what he'd said had made an impression. It hadn't been easy, dredging up those memories, but he'd also recognized that if his painfully-gained lessons could help someone else, he'd do what he could. Ward wasn't irredeemable, no matter what the man thought. 

"I hope he knows how lucky he is," Clint said, stepping back and raising a hand to rub the back of his neck. "Not everyone has Phil Coulson rooting for them."

Phil just shrugged. "I don't know about that. I'm not that special. Just a guy who believes there's good in everyone. I believed in you, after all. And Natasha. That's worked out for me so far."

"Yeah," Clint said, smiling. "Tell me again why you didn't have Nat do this? She's so much better at it than me."

"I thought maybe your story would connect better," Phil said. "Besides, Natasha's off the grid."

Clint knew what that meant: Nat had checked in and then disappeared. He couldn't blame her, really. He'd wanted to do the same, but after the fall of SHIELD, he knew he needed to connect with Phil and his team and help any way he could. 

Of course, that was a lot harder than he'd anticipated, what with the fact that he'd been halfway around the world at the time. Still, he'd gotten back in enough time to check in with Cap—and fuck if he wasn't still entirely too pissed off that someone thought he'd actually willingly assassinate Captain America; Steve Rogers was a friend, someone who'd believed in him without a second thought just minutes after he'd shaken off Loki's mind control—before he'd gone off the grid himself. 

Not so far off that he couldn't answer a summons from his former handler, though. He'd been among the privileged few to know about Phil surviving Loki's stabbing, and while he didn't exactly approve of Fury's handling of the whole thing, he wasn't going to argue the outcome.

Clint dragged his mind back to the present, watching Phil watch Ward on the feed from inside the facility.

"He's not stupid," Clint said. "And he's not mindless. He's smart and clever, but there's still enough of the scared kid he used to be in him; he'll come around."

"I hope so," Phil said on a sigh.

You didn't have to be psychic to get that Phil was highly invested in the outcome. It was the second time he'd lost a team member to something like mind control. He wasn't going to take it sitting down.

"Thank you, Clint," Phil said, finally dragging his attention away from the feed. "I appreciate what it took for you to come here and talk to him."

"You know me, sir," Clint said, smiling. "Always willing to lend a hand."

"I was hoping you'd say that," Phil said. He tapped a few times on his tablet, the familiar whoosh of an email being sent clear in the quiet. "I just sent you a file. Someone I want you to go look at, see whether or not he can be persuaded to join us."

"Sure thing, Boss," Clint said. This was more like the sort of mission he was comfortable with. Observing, cataloging. If necessary, he'd make contact, but it would be one colleague to another. 

"Be careful," Phil admonished him. "SHIELD is still persona non grata in most parts of the world."

"You know me," Clint said, cheeky grin firmly in place.

Phil rolled his eyes. "Yes, that's what I'm afraid of. You need a lift?"

"Nah," Clint said. "Tony's got it covered."

"The benefits of being friends with a billionaire," Phil said, smiling knowingly.

Clint just smiled. He had no idea what criteria Tony Stark used to determine who his friends were, but somehow Clint had found himself on the list. It was good, having someone else with that much faith in him, and it had been part of the reason he'd been able to let the guilt of his time with Loki go. Well, that and the faith of his former handler.

"Ward'll come around," Clint felt compelled to say. "If he's anything like me, he'll eventually realize that forgiveness can be had. He just has to learn how to trust someone worth trusting."

"I have every faith in him," Phil said. "Just like I did—and do—in you."

"Director," Clint said, holding out his hand.

Phil took it, shaking firmly. "Specialist."

Clint winked before sliding his sunglasses on, turning to head for his rental car and the airport. He had calls to make and arrangements to settle, and a mission to plan for the first time in a long while.

And as he walked away he made a mental note to check in on Ward in a couple of weeks. He had no illusions that one conversation with the man would slay all his demons, but if he could help redeem him the way Coulson had done with Clint, he'd consider that a down payment for the faith and forgiveness he'd been offered after everything Loki had done to him.

~Finis

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so Clint's history is a mash-up of comics and what I've gleaned from the various fanfiction works I've read. As such, it's in no way, shape or form meant to be canon. It's just my interpretation of what the movie version of Clint might have gone through. Also, Clint's reference to touching base with Steve (which would have taken place during the events of CA:TWS) are based on descriptions of a deleted scene the directors described. I liked it so much I've decided it really did take place, just off camera. /nods/


End file.
